If You Don't Mean It
by Karma Sutra
Summary: A reader x France story! After an 'incident' at a cafe with France, you find your feelings for the flighty nation are becoming harder to push away. It's not as if he likes you back... right?
1. Chapter 1

"Ma amie?"

Your half closed eyes snapped open and your arm slammed down and against the table in surprise. Wincing and rubbing your forearm, you looked over at Francis accusingly. Truthfully, he wasn't to blame for you spacing out (again), but it was so easy to blame the pervert you had known since you were nothing but a micro nation.

"Hm?" You ask, forcing yourself to keep looking at him rather than his friend, Antonio, who was standing up for whatever reason he mentioned while you were straying in your thoughts. Forcing back your daydreams, you shook away the ridiculous misgivings and leaned back in the café chair. It was too lovely a day to wither away, pining over the impossible. The impossible that was already several yards away flirting with a waitress. A French waitress at that. With high cheekbones and long legs. The more you thought, the more irritated you became.

Francis grabbed your hand to prevent the further slaughtering of your ice cream, which you had been unconsciously stabbing. You relaxed your grip on the spoon, but pulled your hand away from his. You assumed your own hesitation at being touched by him was due to his long history of perverted habits, or perhaps because he was your childhood friend and it felt much too intimate. Either way, you avoided it when you could.

"I can't tell," he murmured, infuriatingly bemused and seemingly oblivious to the suddenly tense atmosphere, "whether you're ogling the waitress or Antonio. I'm going to assume Antonio, as he has been your object of obsession for several weeks now, or am I wrong?"

"You're not wrong," You muttered, suddenly tired. He was more perceptive than you had thought, although you didn't mind him knowing you favored his friend. It had nothing to do with him, so why did you feel so pleased?

"Don't bother with him." The smile that constantly graced Francis's face disappeared startlingly fast.

You raised an eyebrow. You hadn't seen Francis this serious in quite a while.

"And why not?"

"He doesn't swing that way. Haven't you seen him around Romano?"

Yes, you had noticed Romano. It surprised you that someone else did, and you wondered why you didn't feel more emotion over the confirmation that 'your object of obsession' was interested in another guy.

"Besides," Francis continued, his chair scraping back as he stood.

"What are you-?"

Before you realized what was happening, he stole your hand from the table and kissed it.

"I don't want you thinking about any other guy but me," He whispered, looking much too deeply into your eyes.

Was that earnestness you detected in his voice?

_No!_

You slapped him, perhaps with more force than you intended, and pushed from the table, inadvertently causing it to tip. A cup was knocked over, splashing Francis with its contents. Guilt and, even more so, panic swelled in your chest. You scrambled to your feet, aware of the stares that were suddenly centered on your table.

"Oh God, I'm sorry!" You reached for a napkin only to knock over your glass of ice cream as well.

_What_ had he been _thinking_, saying something like that? You had so carefully ignored even the slightest feeling of affection towards him that went past friendship. Everything had been so neatly repressed. Why did he have to say something to make your heart race so much? The walls you had erected were crumbling with the realization that he could so easily disillusion you with nothing but a kiss. When had you become so sensitive?

Reigning in your thoughts and shaking your head to clear it, you blurted, "I-I've got to go!" before abandoning your efforts to salvage the situation and turning to leave. You paused for only a moment before half walking/half running away from the café, and away from Francis.


	2. Chapter 2

You are sick, and pleased about it. The headache, fever, and chills only contribute to the guilt/anxiety induced nausea you are facing, but any legitimate excuse to skip the UN meeting was welcome. Sprawled on the bed, you reach for your cell phone to text your absence excuse to Fra-

Ludwig. You would text Ludwig instead.

Sick today. Can't come to meeting (^ ^);

Having placed your phone on the nightstand, you curl into a ball and fall asleep.

Something is touching your nose. You sneeze and swat at it. There is a sharp chirp, which only irritates your headache, and you mutter a weak protest at the offender.

"_, you sound completely unawesome."

Your eyes snap open and you sit up with a start.

"Gilbert?" you murmur hoarsely.

"Ksesesesese! The awesome Prussia has come to take care of you!"

Decked out in his old military uniform, the albino man is leaning against the far wall. How he has gotten in, you have no idea. If Francis had given him a key, you would remember to kill the French man later. The chirping had been, you realize, Gilbird (who was making himself quite at home on the pillow beside you).

"What are you doing here?" you ask, perhaps a bit harshly. He doesn't seem to catch your tone, and starts to study your belongings.

"Didn't I say I was here to take care of you? You're lucky to have such an awesome nurse!" Gilbert boasts, all the while toying with a silk scarf Francis had given you (it was from his city of Lyon). You narrow your eyes.

"Go home," you mutter, laying back down and throwing your coverlet over your head.

"Nein!" he exclaims in his native German before perching at the edge of your bed. He tugs the blanket away from your feverish face.

"This was the only way Ludwig would let me out of the house! Besides, Francis has been ignoring me lately, and I've decided you're the next best thing."

You find the energy to snort. Gilbert, Antonio, and Francis had always been close friends, even after Gilbert retired to Ludwig's basement. As the younger nation, you remember trailing behind the three like a little sister would, and it appeared the Prussian remembers as well. You open your mouth to give a retort, but his eyes suddenly appear troubled.

"What's with the f-"

"Did something happen between you and Francis?" he asks suddenly, cutting you off.

"W-what?" you choke. Had your face not already been feverish, you would be blushing. Excitement fills his scarlet eyes at your reaction, and you begin to feel even more nauseous.

"Nothing happened."

"You're blushing!"

"It's called a fever, Gilbert."

He pauses, seemingly thrown off. "But," he begins, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, "shouldn't Francis be sick too? He kissed you didn't he?"

Could blood rushing to a person's face kill them? If so, you decide you're going to die _very_ soon. "I-it was just on my hand! He was being weird, that's all! B-besides, people d-don't get sick like that!" You babble, nervously bunching your sheets in your hands. The surprise on Gilbert's face makes you feel worse.

"He didn't kiss you on the lips? Or molest you? Not even a little bit? Ksesese, if I didn't know any better, I'd think he likes you," he winks and holds out his hand. Gilbird hops into his palm.

You look down, thoroughly embarrassed. "That's ridiculous. He flirts with everything that moves."

From your peripheral vision, you see Gilbert shrug. "That wasn't flirting, that was a confession." The Prussian stands and walks towards the door. You bite your lip, actually considering the possibility of what he had said while trying to come up with a response. He pauses and looks back, a grin spreading on his face.

"Hm, kissing your hand… does that count as a 'French kiss'?"

Shocked and suddenly quite irked with his idiotic statements, you jump up and snatch a pillow to throw at his head. However, a sudden onslaught of vertigo hits you like a monsoon, causing your vision to blur. You feel your legs give out before everything fades completely into black.


	3. Chapter 3

You groggily became aware of the sheets beneath you, and the suffocating heat around you. After a failed attempt to struggle, you realized your limbs felt heavy. You tried to cry out, only discovery your throat was too dry to be of much use. Something cool was quite suddenly pressed against your lips, and something wet trickled down your burning cheek.

_Water. _

You opened your mouth and drank greedily; the liquid alleviating the nausea of which you had become aware. Prying your eyes open, you glance up at the source of water…

… and choke.

"F-Francis, what-" A coughing fit overtook your body and caused you to shake, spilling more of the water before it was quickly taken away. Attempting to sit up, you couldn't help but grimace as a migraine settled itself in your cerebellum.

Francis stood before you with what was left of the water. Concern tinted his features; an odd look for the light hearted pervert. Even the other day, you remember a softer expression than was his usual. The sight made you giggle, and then laughter erupted from your parched and burning throat as he frowned.

"I don't understand what's so funny, ma amie. Tu as soif. You are dehydrated, drink."

He offered you the glass, and you complied; taking it from his hand and downing it quickly. While you did so, you sneaked glanced back at him and realize that, somehow, you are completely relaxed. Even pleased by his presence. It seemed ridiculous to have avoided him, in retrospect.

"Why'd you come over? Wasn't there a meeting?" You ask, wiping your mouth with your arm and setting the empty glass on the bedside table. The water was a greater help than you could have imagined, and you were beginning to feel much better.

He grinned devilishly, "Not one they'll miss me at."

You frown. "Francis, you're one of the major deciding powers… Ludwig's going to be furious!" The Frenchman shrugged, and his smile faded. "Gilbert told me you collapsed. He claimed it was some sort of 'awesome' overdose. Ludwig will understand, he's not unreasonable."

You blush slightly. Having collapsed was embarrassing, and even more so when the only witness claims it was due to his own imaginary charisma.

"Anyway," Francis began again, taking the glass from the table. "Do you have any wine? I've had a stressful day, you know."

Rolling your eyes, you nod (despite the subsiding headache). "I have some in the refrigerator. Have at it, and get me some too."

He was already out the door, but he called back, "_Non_, you're dehydrated, so you aren't allowed to have alcohol. This isn't the wine I got for you last week, is it?"

"Maybe!" You answer back; slightly amused by the audible and overdramatic sigh he gave.

Perhaps a relationship wouldn't be so bad with him. You had, had these thoughts before, but you always refused to dwell on them for long. The flirtatious and flighty Frenchie would hardly be reliable, and it would be difficult not to doubt his fidelity. You refused to pine away for such a womanizer.

Francis's strode into the room again, a fresh glass of water in one hand, and a bottle of wine in the other and wineglass in the other. He handed you your cup and filled his own halfway as one does with wine before lifting it up in a toast.

"I would drink to your health, but you have none right now," he teased while you stuck out your tongue. An odd, thoughtful expression crossed his face. "Instead, why don't I drink to the fact you've finally stopped running away from me."

He was serious, you realized, and your cheeks became red. There was the earnest glance, the sincere voice. Looking away, you take a sip of your water.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you mutter. You heard rustling, and realized he was leaning closer to you.

"Je t'aime vraiment. Que faut-il pour tu de comprendre?"

Glancing up, you opened your mouth to remind him that you don't understand French. However, before you could utter a word, he crushed his lips against yours and your breath hitched in your throat.

You certainly understood _that_.


End file.
